Nomad
by ginOO7
Summary: 12/5/15: In drafting - be forewarned these chapters are raw, unedited chapters. Description: Phoenix Series: Part III. What better way to pass the day than tied up in the Sahara reminiscing about old times? It is sure to be a long and surly day in the sand and the sun.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is Part 3 of the Phoenix series. So, fair warning - it is not a standalone story, and certain continuations of plot threads may not make considerable sense unless you have read previous installments._

McCall stared at the gathering clouds over Niger's skyline with an air of resignment. "You know, I remember that Dana Cauldron once told me that no one can film what turns your crank."

Control cocked an eyebrow at McCall, shifting his bound hands behind his back to try to get the blood flowing to his fingers again. "I'm surprised you would put much stock in anything a pimp says, especially Dana."

"And you know," McCall went on, ignoring the comment, "this is exactly what he was talking about. You are getting some sort of bizarre pleasure out of this whole thing."

Control shrugged off the comment, "It could be worse."

"Really? Tell me, how could it _possibly_ be worse?" McCall gestured at the desolate surroundings with a tilt of his head. "We are tied up in the middle of the Sahara, and our captors have disappeared. You're using _sick leave_ to chase after a man who – by your own admission – would probably like to dance on your grave. No one knows that we are here, so no one is looking for us. There's a sandstorm on the horizon, the only water we've had in two days had the delightful taste of gasoline, and you _promised_ last time before Pakistan that there would be _no more camels_, not to mention that debacle back in Agadez or the fact that I almost died in Mali."

"As I recall this wasn't entirely my idea."

McCall glared at him. "It was _entirely_ your idea after we left Djenne."

Control shrugged, "All right, I admit this particular venture might not have been my _best_ idea."

McCall looked at the sky with an air of disbelief, "That is a rather generous understatement." McCall glanced sideways with a scowl. "Your belief that this is a vacation of sorts is beyond me. Even Bermuda has beaches. Niger is one of the world's poorest countries, it isn't strategically important in any sense, and to say its landscape leaves something to be desired would be charitable, at best."

"Robert, try to keep an open mind. It might grow on you."

McCall looked at the heat waves in the distance and shifted his weight on the sand. "I highly doubt it."

The two men stared at the flat distance, devoid of life or movement, for several moments.

"Well, as long as we are getting things off our chest," Control finally responded, "you don't need to send my goddaughter to spy on me, all right?"

McCall snorted, "That really is the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?"

Control silently stared back into the distance. "I've given you a remarkably free rein," he said quietly.

"Anything else you'd like to discuss?" McCall asked, his tone shaded with rancor. "We do have _all day_," he added, cynically. "Do you have any sort of plan to get out of here? Did you at least bring along your transmitter?"

Control started laughing. "You're joking, right? After what happened last time? Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't bring it. It's attached to a cat somewhere in São Vicente at the moment. The Company is going to think I've picked up a penchant for visiting alleys at strange hours."

McCall licked his dry lips, chapped from the heat of the Sahel's sun. "It's a bit of a blessing and curse, isn't it? Since it had a compass on it, and we have no idea where we are."

Control sighed, "Patience is a virtue out here, Robert."

"Oh bravo," McCall retorted, "I've never felt more like I'm waiting for the angel of death."


	2. Chapter 2

**More than a Week Earlier**

* * *

Robert McCall neatly tucked away a few last minute items before zipping up his suitcase. He lifted the lightly packed, small case with ease, pulling his bedroom door closed behind him. "Mickey," he bellowed, glancing at his watch as he turned the corner into his living room. He found Kostmayer with his feet on the coffee table, perusing a recent magazine with disinterest.

McCall checked his cell phone one last time, flipped it closed, and tossed the phone at Kostmayer. Kostmayer caught it and stood, stretching. "Any last minute instructions?" McCall shook his head, eyeing the room with one last distracted glance before heading for the door.

Kostmayer had noticed that McCall had been uncharacteristically on edge for the last few weeks since they had rescued the Ukrainian boy. Kostmayer had surreptitiously gathered it had to do with Manon, but McCall had said little to him about the current situation, and Mickey knew better than to pry. Kostmayer knew a great deal about McCall's history with Manon, but he had not been privy to the recent events. He had, however, unravelled much of the situation from McCall's brusque responses, Yvette's frequent phone calls, and a sixth sense for troubling situations.

McCall had also neglected to tell him the exact circumstances surrounding this trip. Mickey had noted that a courier had dropped off a small package for McCall - one that McCall had apparently been expecting - and now McCall had dropped everything on a moment's notice to take a trip to an unspecified location for an unspecified amount of time. The entire affair reeked of Company involvement.

"Just remember to answer the messages from the Times advertisement, especially if they are urgent. Someone has to - it seems that after more than a decade equalizing, there are more problems in this city than ever before." McCall said, a slight note of strain evident in his voice as he headed toward the door. "And do _try_ not to wreck my new Jag this time, will you?"

Kostmayer grinned, "Hey, somebody's got to take that kitten out for a walk while you're gone. I'll make sure she's purring when you get back." He pushed himself to his feet. "Speaking of the Jag, need a ride to the airport?"

"No, I've got a Yellow Cab waiting," McCall gestured toward the window. "I spoke with Scott last night, so he knows that I will be gone, and I left a message on Yvette's phone, but she may call for more details."

"Do you plan to give me some of those?"

McCall paused, "I'm sorry, Mickey, it's a rather long story, and I know that I owe you an explanation, but right now, I simply haven't the time. I will call when possible - you'll have to tell Yvette that I'm actively working on her mother's situation. If anyone else asks, I'm on vacation. Could you hand me my ticket on the counter?"

Kostmayer grabbed the ticket and glanced at it as he handed it over. "Cape Verde? Sounds relaxing enough."

"I can assure you, Mickey, it is highly likely to be anything but relaxing. Now, here is the number to the little safe behind my gun case - it has client assistance funds if you find you need them. If anything serious happens, call Detective Shepherd. I've already spoken with her, and she knows that you will be representing my clients while I am away."

"Come on, McCall," Mickey grinned, "what could possibly go wrong?"

* * *

McCall tucked the suitcase into the overhead compartment of the wide body Boeing 747. He slide into his Business Class seat, adjusting his shirt cuffs and scanning his environment. He would not be surprised again, as he had been with Isra a few weeks earlier. There was no one he could identify in his immediate vicinity, so he shifted uncomfortably in the airplane seat, fingering the ticket he had laid on the tray table. The flight attendant stopped to take his beverage order before they took off, but he waved her off, glancing at his watch. He silently watched the other passengers filtering past his seat, battling with their luggage. He had always been impressed by the amount of luggage Americans were able to trundle around on short flights to see their relatives. On longer flights, such as this, they were able to stuff what appeared to be a vast percentage of their private belongings into two large pieces of luggage and a handbag. He took out the magazine from the seat pocket in front of him, appearing to glance through its brief articles concerning various exotic destinations, but he was still keenly alert to his surroundings.

"Robyn, get a move on, will you?"

McCall glanced up at the sharp note in the stranger's voice. He noticed a woman holding a young baby in her arms, pushing a diaper bag, a purse, and another backpack filled with items for the infant in front of her. "I'm moving as fast as I can, Rick," the woman returned, tiredness in her voice. The father, if he was indeed the father, had only his own bag, watching as the young woman struggled with her bulky load.

McCall narrowed his eyes, watching the couple as they disappeared toward the back.

The rest of the crowd settled in their seats, and finally the Boeing rolled down the runway, picking up speed as it eased into the air, heading for Europe, the first leg of McCall's trip. The flight was relatively uneventful and even peaceful as it flitted through the midnight air; although the quiet hum of the engines was periodically marred by elevated voices from the back of the plane. Halfway into the flight, McCall made his way toward the forward lavatory only to find it occupied. Hoping to stretch his legs, he reversed his path and headed toward the rear of the plane.

As he passed rows upon rows of passengers, he heard a baby's wail and the same man's voice from earlier, angrily growling, "Don't you know how to shut that kid up, Robyn?" McCall's eyes swept the seats, finding the couple and the child in the center of the Boeing behind a wall divider. The passengers around the couple were uneasily eyeing the man. Although his demeanor was making them uncomfortable, everyone was staying out of any disagreement with the short-tempered young man. McCall continued past them to the rear lavatories, but he found an even longer line waiting there. He turned sharply, almost bumping into Control, standing just behind him. "That's a very nice parlor trick," McCall fumed, upset at Control's penchant for appearing out of thin air. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

"You didn't know they have a lounge upstairs?" Control asked wryly. "I guess 11 million miles is good for something."

"Under one alias?" McCall retorted. "That doesn't sound like you at all." He turned halfway back toward the lavatory line but carried on the quiet conversation as he tapped the ticket stub in his hand. "Why are we going to Cape Verde?"

"Cape Verde sounded quaint and vacation-like."

"It _sounds_ quite far from our destination."

Control's eyes twinkled. "I may have some additional tickets somewhere for onward flights."

"I thought you might," McCall snorted.

Control shrugged, "Anyway, I've arranged another seat in the lounge, if you'd like to come up."

"If you had a seat for me up there all this time," McCall gestured toward the upper deck, "why did it take you four hours to appear? We're halfway over the Atlantic."

"Well, to be honest, Old Son, you weren't my first choice of companions," Control chuckled. "Anyway, I still have to sweet talk the stewardess into releasing it since it was booked under another name. Give me a half hour and then slip up quietly, if you can. We can go over the plans for the next few days."

McCall glanced again at his watch. "A half hour, then."

Before Control could respond, their brief conversation was interrupted by the stranger's voice, angrily directing his companion to quiet her child again. McCall stepped around Control, moving toward the couple down the aisle with purpose in his stride. "Robert," Control put a warning hand up to stop McCall, his face serious. "Not on the plane." There was the hint of an entreaty in his voice.

"If not now, when? Besides, keeping a low profile is your problem, not mine." McCall brushed past him, heading toward the sounds of Rick's raised voice.

Control groaned. This was going to be a very long trip, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bucharest, Romania**

Yakiv Guraya scowled at the two photos of Robert McCall and Michael Kostmayer on his flickering computer screen. They were blurry images, taken of McCall and Kostmayer the day they had freed Yuriy from his cell. "Who are they?" Yakiv growled. "Who were they hired by?" He spat on the floor with disgust. "I've got a multi-million dollar trafficking ring in the United States broken up by these two." He stared back at the two faces in the photos. "My cousin Josep is going to trial in less than two months, I can't move any girls into North America until we find a new distributor to replace him, and all I can get is these two photos from Josep's security cameras." Yakiv stood, abruptly, gesturing wildly toward his henchmen. "Call New York. Put a million dollar hit on each of their heads. That should bring in some information. We need to send a message to anyone that thinks they can shut down Guraya. I want to know who these guys are before the week is up. In the meantime, find me a new distributor in New York, and I need a contact inside the prison where Josep is being held. Get going."

* * *

**The flight to Cape Verde, via Europe**

"What the f_?" Rick threw up his hands in disgust. The baby had just projected his bump onto Rick's slacks. "Robyn, can you do _anything_ right?" he looked up to find a smartly dressed stranger looming in his face. The stranger had bent down, grasping the hand rests on either side of Rick, staring him intently in the eye. Robyn was leaning away from both of the men, unsure of what was to come.

"Rick? Rick, is it?" McCall leaned in closer, his voice low. The cabin lights had been dimmed for the redeye flight, and few people were awake. Those that were awake had been abruptly awakened by Rick's voice, but most had already drifted back into their slumber, and McCall's low voice was lost under the dull noise of the aircraft's motors. "This woman," McCall lifted a hand from the armrest to point to Robyn, but his intimidating gaze did not shift from Rick, "is trying her very best to console an infant who is clearly reacting to _your_ tone. Whether or not this child is yours, you are the travelling companion of both mother and child, and you would be wise to aid her rather than make the situation worse." After a moment, McCall stood, looming over the man as he readjusted his cuffs.

Rick snorted, nervously looking around. "This ain't none of your business, old man."

McCall stared at the ceiling for a moment, considering how tired he was of hearing that term lately before he leaned in again, making the conversation quiet and personal. "I've _made_ it my business. And if I hear so much as one syllable from you for the rest of this flight, I will personally ensure that you do not have the ability to have children _ever_ again."

Robyn had stood up, taking the child away from the conversation of the two men. McCall walked over to her, his back angled toward Rick. "You may wish to reconsider your travel companions in future."

Robyn glanced at the card and shook her head. "I can't," Robyn said, glancing over McCall's shoulder. "You don't understand."

"I may not understand, but I can help," McCall replied with sincerity. He withdrew a small business card from his breast pocket and tucked it into her bag, his body hiding the action from Rick. "If you ever have any problems with him again, don't hesitate to contact the number on this card for help." He turned away to see Rick ringing the stewardess call button.

A dainty brunette made her way past Control, who was watching from the back of the plane. He was leaning his shoulder against the lavatory wall as he watched the scene play out in front of him. The brunette squeezed past him, making her way by McCall and Robyn in the aisle before arriving at Rick's row. "What can I do for ya, hun?" she leaned in, switching off the light.

"That guy," Rick pointed back at McCall, his confidence returning, "he just threatened me. Right here, and I didn't do nothin'."

McCall narrowed his eyes. For a punk, this Rick was going to be more of a handful than he had anticipated.

The brunette glanced back at McCall. "That guy?" she sighed. "You're sure?" She looked incredulously at McCall. He didn't have the aura of someone who would walk around threatening people.

"Yeah, I'm telling you. He even put his hands near me - I thought he was going to punch me. That's assault, right?" Rick was intimately familiar with assault and battery charges. "He threatened my life. I don't feel safe."

The stewardess looked around for another passenger to confirm his story, but everyone else around him was sleeping. The stewardess glanced over her shoulder at McCall. "Stay here," she commanded.

She brushed past McCall and Robyn again, making her way to the back of the aircraft. Control heard the flight attendant pick up the aircraft telephone behind him, presumably radioing the cockpit for instructions. He rubbed his temples with one hand as he heard the flight attendant outline the situation. As she hung up the phone, he stepped around the curtain, bumping into her. "Oh, I apologize, Meredith," he glanced at her name badge as he stepped back.

"I'm sorry," she held up a hand, "I need you to take your seat, sir, I've got a situation I'm dealing with at the moment . . . ."

"I know," he smiled, "I overheard. I happen to be an air marshal."

Meredith looked momentarily confused. "Oh, I didn't know we had one onboard today, I -"

Control flashed a badge in his wallet momentarily before replacing it in his back pocket. "I'm off duty - never fails. Same thing happened last time I took a vacation." He motioned toward the passengers. "Do you want me to take care of this?"

Meredith looked unbelievably relieved. "Oh, yes, if you could, that would be wonderful. I'll just let the pilot know."

Control nodded, turning back toward the cabin as he heard her pick up the phone again. As he continued down the hall, he heard her footsteps catch up with him a moment later. He pointed at McCall, "I'll take him upstairs with me. I think there's a seat available up there?" Meredith nodded, taking McCall by the arm and advising him to pack up his personal belongings from Business Class. Control stared sullenly at Rick. He sympathized with McCall's actions, but this was not how he wanted to start out a trip that he had intended to be as low profile as possible. "I guess that leaves an open seat in Business Class."

"Hey man, I'll head up there," Rick stood up.

"No," Control stared him back into his seat. "You will stay right here. Meredith, will you escort the young lady to Business Class?" The flight attendant helped Robyn up to Business Class as she kept an eye on McCall gathering his things, and Control sat down in the seat adjacent to Rick.

"Who are you?" Rick asked, casually.

"I'm an air marshal*," Control curtly replied. "Let me see your ticket,"

Rick wordlessly took out his ticket, handing it to Control. Control briefly glanced over it, jotting down a note. "I see your final destination plans are in Estonia, Mr. Traveers."

"Yeah?" Rick said, eyeing the man next to him.

"Have you ever seen an Estonia jail?"

Rick responded slowly, "No, I haven't."

"I wouldn't recommend them," Control replied. "I don't like outbursts on my plane, Mr. Traveers, and I wouldn't want to see you end up in a place like an Estonian jail." He handed back Traveers' ticket. "Enjoy your flight," he said, his eyes cold. He got up, slowly making his way back to the upper lounge.

Control nodded at Meredith as she slipped out of the lounge, and Control rebuckled his seatbelt before finally looking back at McCall. "_That_ is what you consider _quietly _slipping up here?"

McCall glanced at his watch. "It took considerably less than a half hour, and you didn't have to talk the flight attendant into anything."

"You had no idea if I had a badge in my wallet," Control furrowed his brow in annoyance. "All I need right now is an accusation of impersonating a federal officer on an international flight."

"Let's just call it an educated guess that you would have something up your sleeve - or in your back pocket, as the case may be." McCall paused, staring at Control for a moment, trying to decipher the meaning of his last comment. "Is the Company aware of this little jaunt?"

"They are _aware_ that I am taking a vacation." Control had a pained expression on his face.

"For recuperation?" McCall enquired, closely.

"Yes," Control answered, "for recuperation."

"So," McCall shook his head, "let me get this clear. You plan to deceive the Company into believing that you are recuperating on a tropical beach in Cape Verde while we are half a continent away?"

"Look Robert, for all the Company knows, I'm on sick leave. My superiors aren't going to be pleased if they find out I'm harboring Manon in a psychiatric hospital, and I'm helping you with her only chance at true recovery. So, let's just leave it at that, all right?"

"What do you mean harboring Manon? I thought you said you would get the warrant and the involuntary commitment lifted?"

Control could feel a headache building. "I _have_ been working on it. There were a few setbacks, and besides, it didn't make sense to transfer her until we have a private doctor assigned. It will be much easier to persuade the Company that an outside doctor needs to stay on her case if she is already under his care." Control could feel McCall's tension building. "I don't need the Company looming over my shoulder, especially if they figure out what is going on before I can unravel the warrant and the involuntary commitment. If they do, they'll just transfer her commitment, and God only knows where the Company will bury her."

McCall looked up sharply at the word "bury" but forced himself to relax. "All right, let's just get through this. Now, what was that other business you wanted to discuss?"

* * *

*The Air Marshal program has been in existence since 1962. Though less widely known before 9/11, they would have been present periodically on select flights.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bucharest, Romania**

Yakiv was not a patient man. His chin sported a nasty scar because of it, earned at the wrong end of a broken pool stick in a fight when he was 15. Splinters had driven the stick practically through his entire check, dislodging several of his teeth. Now he had a lopsided grin, covered with uneven stubble. Though he was slightly vain about his looks, he could never quite trim the beard properly over his scar. He had since had his teeth realigned by a very thorough dentist in Kiev, but his jaw was still permanently disfigured, and Yakiv would never be seen in the hallway of a plastic surgeon. Though he had never quite reined in his impatience, Yakiv had used his ceaseless energy to build an empire in Western Europe. That his cousin Josep had failed him miserably made Yakiv even more impatient to find the two men in the photograph from Josep's security cameras.

His phone rang twice. Yakiv picked it up, his eyes dead. "Evet?" he said, quietly.

"I've got a name for you," the voice on the other end of the phone replied. "A guy you might be interested in."

Yakiv smiled to himself. "Good, what is the name?"

"Robert McCall."

Yakiv lit a cigarette. "And what is your name?"

"Let's just say McCall and I have a score to settle."

Yakiv sucked the cigarette until the end glowed red. "I don't do deals with anonymous people. You have given me the name, if you want your payment, you'll give me yours as well."

On the other end of the phone, the man bit his lip for a millisecond. "Rudy Bagler*," he finally replied.

* * *

**Amsterdam, the Netherlands**

"The contact information?" McCall asked Control, pointedly, as they deplaned in Amsterdam for their onward flight.

Control wordlessly handed over the paper with Rick Traveers travel and home information written in his scrawl.

McCall snapped the folded paper from Control, "I've got a phone call to make."

"I thought you might," Control said, under his breath, as he watched McCall disappear into the busy airport, headed for a payphone. Control hoped McCall would abide by his request and leave the flight and him out of it - or at least advise Mickey to leave the words "air marshal" out of the situation, but McCall didn't always play nicely. The idea that his name would be dragged into the mess and get back to his superiors in Washington nagged at Control; nevertheless, he trusted McCall, even if it was a nervous trust at times. He pushed the name of Rick Traveers to the back of his mind. There were too many other things to worry about in the upcoming days, and handling Robert was surely going to take every ounce of his tact.

* * *

**New York, New York**

Kostmayer reeled quickly through McCall's messages - they contained the same crackpots that always called the Equalizer's phone number, but there were a few potential leads. He'd already followed up on a few calls, and they were keeping him out of trouble. He skipped through them quickly until he heard McCall's voice, relaying the incident on the plane detailing Traveers flight schedule and address. Mickey smiled inwardly. He mentally ticked his calendar "occupied" for the weekend: he would be paying Mr. Traveers a visit after Rick returned to the United States.

* * *

**São Vicente****, Cape Verde**

McCall and Control arrived to Francisco Mendes International Airport on Santiago Island in Cape Verde in the late morning. They had little trouble with their passports - they both spoke fluent French and Spanish, which almost passed for terrible Portuguese, and the Cape Verde authorities smiled as they stamped the Americans' passports. "Bem-vindo," the airport wall read as the exited the airport to a hot and humid day. They took a small commuter flight to São Vicente island, and when the taxi driver asked where they were headed, Control handed him a private address. The cab driver read the address and headed north. Within 20 minutes, they were in the heart of Mindelo, a charming port city that was home to most of São Vicente's population, speckled with colonial style buildings in a variety of muted but colorful port colors.

The cab driver stopped before an imposing white washed building flanked by palm trees and delivered their bags to the door. Control paid the driver in escudo, as an elderly man dressed in white opened the door. "Welcome," he smiled, a few of his teeth missing, "we've been expecting you." He ushered them inside, following with their bags. "My name is Arménio, and it is my pleasure to show you to your flats. I'm afraid Doña Margarida is out for the moment. She will be back later. In the meantime, let me show you to your rooms. I understand you will be with us for a few weeks, and I hope that the rooms will meet with your expectations. Of course, we received your request to hold the housekeeping services during your stay. For privacy, you may use the main entrance or your private entrances in the back."

Arménio took them around the back of the building, where the landscape dramatically cascaded toward the water, revealing an unexpected and breathtaking view of Mindelo's bay. Arménio unlocked their doors, and motioned toward the rooms. "Please," he grinned, "you will find some _ponche_ inside to welcome you, it is made of our finest cane spirits, and it has the delight of lime and molasses to quench your thirst from travelling. I hope you enjoy it - it is from my family's farm on Santo Antão." He turned, "Oh," he turned back, thoughtfully, putting a hand into his vest and withdrawing two stubs, "Doña Margarida left these for you, for tonight. Please, you _must_ go." McCall had noticed the movement and had been prepared to react, but softened when he saw the tickets. He flashed acquiesce with a smile.

"No, Teófilo," Arménio clapped as a stray cat zipped into one of the flats. Control waived him off as Arménio prepared to chase the cat.

"It's fine."

"They are everywhere, I'm so sorry. That one - Doña Margarida feeds him, and he acts as the _Dom_ of the house," he fumbled for words, clearly apologetic. "Teófilo," he called over their shoulder, and in a moment the cat appeared again, rounding the corner at top speed. Arménio shrugged, "he thinks it is dinner time already, at this time of the morning. Again, apologies." Arménio disappeared back around the building.

"I didn't know you had grown a soft spot for felines," McCall remarked, tasting the _ponche_, which was surprisingly good if slightly sweet.

Control shrugged, "it might come in handy, you never know."

McCall squinted at him for a moment, dismissing the comment as he leaned against his threshold, his keys dangling in his hand. "I could use a shower after those flights. And speaking of flights, when is the onward one?"

Control settled into a chair on the veranda in front of the flats. "Tomorrow at noon, we've got a private charter to Mali to see Dr. Bell."

"I thought he was in Niger?"

Control shook his head, "No, he travels quite frequently. I just found out that he's gone back to a regional office in Bamako."

McCall glanced at the landscape. He was in paradise, and yet he was yearning to get out of it as soon as possible. The longer he was there, the longer Manon was be locked in Kings' Oaks. "All right, I'll see you in the morning."

"Robert," Control stopped him, holding up the tickets. "I wouldn't want to disappoint Arménio or our host if we run into them before we leave. Besides," he smiled, "I'm on vacation."

"It is hardly a vacation," McCall said, grudgingly.

* * *

That evening, McCall and Control were seated in the far corner of a small Mindelo nightclub. On stage, an older woman in bare feet was crooning soothing melodies in Portuguese and Cape Verdean Creole. McCall was entranced by her melodies. Her song, _Sodade_ was particularly soothing, after such a long day. He noticed that he and Control had almost finished a bottle of grogue between them, and he wondered if the singer was as good as he thought or if it was the grogue. The singer took a moment for a smoke break, but she didn't leave the stage as a young bartender delivered her a beverage. McCall's eyes narrowed as they followed the bartender back to the bar. He leaned back slowly in his wood chair, seriousness in his eye.

Control noted the look, throwing back the rest of his _ponche_. "I take it you've noticed Julian at the bar."

McCall glanced at him sharply. "Why are we being followed by a Company agent?"

Control snorted, "I can assure you, he isn't here at my request.'

McCall took this in for a moment. "Then why _is_ he here?"

"Listen, Old Son, you worked for the Company, you know how paranoid people can be. It's part of the job. Look, he verifies we are here and calls Washington. They'll be happy; we can sneak out the back door."

"He would be a terrible agent if that's all he did. I can't imagine the Company would have someone on the payroll whose sole job is to tail someone and who checks in once, but I suppose nothing about the Company would surprise me anymore."

Control smiled, a little glint in his eye. "I have a feeling he'll be busy. _Very_ busy."

"And what exactly do you have planned for him?"

"I don't have anything planned for him." The singer had resumed her set, and the crowd's din drowned out further conversation for a few moments. Control leaned over, "Margaret does."

There was no mistaking that name. There had only ever been one Margaret. That name took McCall back to his earliest years in the Company. Margaret Beaudevoire had been a living legend in the Company. Margaret had a charismatic flair and unending energy that he had never encountered in another woman. Margaret was a woman who could take an older man back to his youth in a heartbeat and make a younger man wish that he had enough years under his belt to court her. She had managed to become one of the Company's first female senior agents. She had always been a challenge because she was energetic and knowledgeable. Her gut instincts were rarely wrong, and she had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. But one day, years before McCall had left the Company, Margaret had simply disappeared. No one had heard from her in the long years since. Most assumed that she had died doing something impulsive. She always had suitors, young and old, coming and going, but no one ever revealed what had happened to her. Hearing her name again took McCall back to those days of his youth. She had been a mentor to him, if only for a brief time, and he, like so many others, admired her from afar. She struck him like a moving flame, difficult to catch, impossible to hold.

McCall had always hoped that Margaret had left the Company and disappeared, though he never really believed it; an enigmatic and adventurous death seemed scripted for her from the beginning. That she had successfully disappeared from the Company, though, was hardly a surprise. It _was_ Margaret, after all. Suddenly things clicked for McCall. "Margaret is Doña Margarida?" he asked Control.

Control leaned over and grabbed McCall's arm, "Don't mention her appearance," he said, quietly.

"What?" McCall looked at Control as he suddenly felt a woman's manicured hand on his shoulder.

"Well hello, boys, I never did think we'd all be in the same room again, let alone in Cape Verde listening to Cessaria Evora." She waved brightly at the singer on stage, and Cessaria returned the wave with a flourish of her hand.

McCall couldn't help but smile at a voice he hadn't heard in so long and turned to see the wisp of a figure hovering over him. Margaret's shock of red hair had faded almost to white, but her freckles were still prominent. Her smile was radiant, and McCall couldn't imagine the years being kinder to a woman who was at least 10 years his senior. His brow furrowed, trying to unwind Control's meaning, but then he saw Control stand and guide Margaret into a chair. She walked stiffly with two canes, and as she sat down, McCall noticed she was wearing two prosthetic legs.

Seeing his expression, she pulled her pant legs down further, covering her prosthetics to her shoes. "Oh, you don't have to ask, Robert," she waved off his wordless inquiry. "You and I were always the same when it came to the Company; we couldn't stand it - we both left, and we were both drawn right back into the action. For me, it was delivering aid in a war zone. Who knew they put IEDs on roads in war zones! Little old me, that's who. I finally found the wrong place, wrong time, and trust me, it's nothing to write home about. Those damn rebels blew up my legs, my comrade in that truck, and water and food for 2,000 villagers." Her eyes teared thinking about it again, but the tears weren't for herself, they were for the victims of the war.

McCall put an arm around her, "Well, you _do _know people who can take care of that for you, you know? Hmm?" he smiled at her, teasing her.

"Oh, Robert," she wiped her eyes, "don't be silly. Although," she held up a finger, "I do know some Somalian rebels who could use a swift kick in the ass."

"Well, I for one am glad," he returned, "that you are alive. And you have found a beautiful place to call home. It has been a long time."

"No one has time for wishy-washyness, you boys are on a plane tomorrow. Listen, I've told this one," she motioned at Control, "that I'll keep Julian as busy as busy can be." She threw her hands, glistening with jewelry, in the air, "You know, I've noticed that men in their thirties just adore being tied up. I don't think I'll have any trouble with Julian," she beamed, gloriously happy as she saw both her companions turn a shade redder. "Anyway, when you two get back, we'll have all the time in the world to catch up. All right?" She turned to the show, clearly enjoying herself as she sang all the words to all the songs in harmony and clapping in time to the finale, _Carnaval de São Vincente_.

McCall watched Margaret enjoying herself, her temporary emotion over the events leading to the loss of her legs forgotten. The sight of Margaret had brought back bittersweet memories of his early days with the Company. It was unexpected but meaningful for him; a parade of vibrant emotions he didn't know he still had for those days, long ago.

At the end of the night, Arménio pulled up in a car to take the trio back to Margaret's house. They disembarked from the car, and Margaret blew them a goodnight kiss from across the drive. McCall saw her gently slap Arménio's helping hands, "I don't know how many times I've told you, Arménio, I can do it," he heard her disappear into the house. McCall shook his head, smiling at the turn of events as walked back toward his flat. Before he shut his door, he turned to Control. "How exactly did you coerce Margaret into doing this, let alone find her?"

Control shrugged, "I didn't find her. She found me. And she volunteered. How could I say no to Margaret? I have to report to her."

McCall blinked, "Have you dragged Margaret into the OSO? My God, man . . . ."

"No," Control scanned the horizon, "she sent me the files last year from Denver, anonymously. And now she's accepted a position on the Board."

McCall shook his head in disbelief. "I'm going to bed." He turned into his flat, preparing for another long day ahead.

Control stood on the veranda a few moments more, a cigar in his hand when he felt the turn of Teófilo between his shoes. Scooping up the cat he unbuckled his watch and secured it to the cat's collar, hidden beneath its fur. "Have fun out there, Teófilo," he said, as he set the cat back down. "Don't make it seem like I'm having too much fun during your night prowls. I do need _some _of my reputation in tact when I get back." He ground out the end of his cigar and was about to head for bed when he noticed Arménio walking in the shadows towards him. Arménio pulled out a small envelope, "Doña Margarida asked that I give you this," he said in a whisper. "She says that you may find it useful." Arménio bowed and drifted back into the moonlight as Control opened the envelope, glancing at its contents for a moment before retiring to bed.

* * *

*Rudy Bagler appears in the episodes _Shadow Play_ and _Blood &amp; Wine._


	5. Chapter 5

**Bamako, Mali**

The next morning, a private car paused in front of took McCall and Control to the airport. They left the majority of their luggage and possessions in the rooms, leaving the rooms with a well-occupied look if Julian happened to pop by unexpectedly.

Back at Francisco Mendes International airport, which they had only left the afternoon before, they flashed their passports at an entrance on the far side of the airport. The airport fence was flanked by a short line of private planes and small jets. A strapping American expat strode toward them, running a hand through his sandy-blond locks. He stretched out a hand as he greeted them at the gate, simultaneously waving them toward the small prop jet. "She's ready to go," he smiled warmly at them. "Name's Martin - Thomas Martin - but everyone here calls me Crash."

McCall glanced at the pilot. That didn't bode well, though the young man looked like he was in one piece. "I hope you aren't planning to," he said as he grasped the young man's hand.

"Planning to?" a look of confusion flashed over the pilot's face.

"Crash," McCall said, briskly.

"Oh no," the pilot laughed, "I've had my share of bad luck but it's never been planned."

"Very reassuring, I'm sure," McCall said under his breath, glaring at Control. They made their way into a private room on the small plane, separated from the cockpit by a closed door. There was no co-pilot, only a long and lonely solitary journey over the Sahara ahead of them. McCall settled in, glancing out of the tiny windows as they taxied down the runway. "Is this what happens when you don't have Nigel around to do your scheduling for you?'

Control shrugged, "They said he was the best they had on hand."

"Oh good," McCall feigned a smile, "_on hand. _That sounds very promising." Despite McCall's misgivings, they had an uneventful flight to Dakar, Senegal, where the small plane refueled and then continued on its onward journey to Bamako. Deep in the night, the plane landed at Bamako–Sénou International Airport. Though both men were half-awake, the chill in the desert air under a bright moon awoke them quickly.

"Wait here," Control pointed toward a waiting car. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Control motioned at the pilot and headed toward the darkened airport terminal where most passengers debarked. Less than 10 minutes later, he had returned and the pilot had disappeared, but there was displeasure evident across Control's face. McCall immediately noticed that Control had a small package in his hand. It was likely an advance package, pre-positioned at an easily accessible location for an agent to pick up local currency, firearms, and other items. From Control's face, McCall could tell the package was missing some of its contents.

As Control ducked into the car, McCall sat silently for a few moments. "Anything important?" he asked, finally tired of waiting for Control to voluntarily offer any information.

Control withdrew a wad of West African franc (CFA), "At least we'll be able to get around."

McCall felt naked without his sidearm, and he wasn't pleased about the prospect of being without one while in West Africa. "How much of a problem with this pose for us?"

Control shook his head, "We're seeing a psychologist, we're not heading to the field. And even if we were, the Tuareg and the Fulani - almost all of them carry crude swords. Besides, for a large city, Bamako can feel like a small village, and expats trying to buy guns will be noticed."

McCall glanced at Control. Rarely, if ever, was McCall not armed. Control, too, was always armed. The nature of their business demanded it. At any moment, anywhere, their backs could become targets; even well after retirement. Carrying a firearm was something they would likely do until the grave. It was not a light thing, then, for Control to dismiss the idea of carrying firearms in Mali, and it made Robert McCall very uneasy. McCall wondered if Control was beginning to become reckless, a very uncharacteristic trait for him. Control was a planner, a thinker. He laid out his plans carefully, like a chess master strategically planning his moves several steps ahead on the board. Perhaps the strain of the past few months was catching up with him in more ways than one. "What are our alternatives?" McCall asked.

"The arms dealers downtown are watched; we won't be able to secure anything in a short amount of time."

"They are being watched by _your_ people," McCall said, matter-of-factly.

"Well, they better be, or heads will roll when I get back to New York."

"That doesn't exactly help us in this particular predicament. Do you believe staying off the Company's radar is worth this risk?"

Control stroked his gray ducktail beard. He hadn't shaved properly since the business with Manon had begun almost two months before. "We've been through this before, Robert. There's no telling what will happen to Manon if my superiors find out about her before we are ready to move."

McCall folded his arms, reluctantly acquiescing. "All right, but have you considered that if any of your people see you in Mali, you've effectively accomplished the same thing?"

Control gazed out the car window at the dark and eerily quiet Bamako streets that whizzed by. "I know, that's why I've booked at us at a hotel down by the river. It isn't popular with the expat community because it is so far out of town. And just for the record, I don't plan on running into any of my people."

McCall looked intently at Control, "At least this trip should be quick. If everything goes as smoothly as you say it will, we can be on a flight out tomorrow evening."

Control grunted his acquiescence, though he had no intention of leaving within the next few days. It was far too early to tell Robert McCall that.

* * *

**New York, New York**

Mickey flipped the phone open, noticing a vaguely familiar number. He waited while the phone rang through, and as soon as it notified him the message had been left, he dialed McCall's message service.

"Hi McCall," the familiar voice hesitated, "it's Bagler. I got a business arrangement you might be interested in. It'll make me some money...you some money...it's a win-win, you know? Call me. But I gotta know asap. It's time sensitive, this deal." The message clicked off.

Kostmayer scribbled down Bagler's number, wondering when and why McCall would ever do a business deal for money with Rudy Bagler. Bagler emitted an odor of greed whenever Kostmayer encountered him. And an agent who had designs on money, women, drugs, or anything besides business usually ended badly at some point. Kostmayer was keenly aware that Bagler had an affinity for money, and there was always the possibility that he would stab you in the back to make a buck. Bagler had spent the years since he had left the Company building up a semi-illicit business in the heart of the City, but his periodic contracts for the Company kept him out of trouble with the law, for the most part. Mickey picked up the phone with a sigh. Sometimes being McCall's live answering machine annoyed the hell out of him.

* * *

**Bamako, Mali**

That evening, Control joined McCall on the spacious mud brick deck of the old hotel. It had a majestic overlook of the expansive Niger River. Control lit up the last cigar from his travel cache, placing it carefully on the table next to his large Castel beer. He would have preferred his usual snifter of bourbon, but the slightly bitter Castel would be as close as he would get until he returned home to New York. He glanced over at the palm wine flask that the waiter had kindly brought over as a welcoming gift, but he considered for a moment the rumors he had heard - that palm wine was guaranteed to make one go blind if one was unlucky enough to drink a bad batch.

McCall pushed his dinner plate away and poured another Castel into his glass. At least here, at this hotel, the beer was cold. He'd had more warm beers than he could count with Control in the bowels of third world countries. They had recounted a few old war stories in the glow of the river, and when they had worn their stories thin for the evening, they sat comfortably in silence for an extended period of time, as only good friends can do. A few small boats drifted by, manned by one or two lithe Malian fishermen. There was a genuine serenity enfolding the little hotel, relaxing McCall even though the vistas stretched in all directions, a perfect opportunity for a scoped rifle. But for the first time in a long, long while, McCall felt no threats; he breathed in the crisp dessert air, so hot at midday, that was now fading to the sting of an evening's coldness.

"Well," McCall finally broke the silence, pushing an empty bottle away, "what about it?"

Control furrowed his brow. "What about what?"

"Why are you here? Why did you go to such great lengths to come Mali? You could have arranged all of this without coming, you know that."

Control waived over the bartender. "For Manon," he said, matter-of-factly.

McCall shook his head, gazing out at the river. "There is nothing that can give her back what has been taken from her. And anyway, it isn't in your nature to be purely altruistic."

Control's face hardened. "Don't be so cynical, Robert."

McCall shrugged. "Then why come if this mission is a simple discussion with Dr. Bell? You could have rang him from New York."

Control fingered his cigar for a moment before answering. "As you know, some discussions can't be conducted over the phone," he paused. "Persuasion, specifically, is best done in hand. And anyway, you're right, there is another reason." He looked up at McCall. "I am worried about you, Old Son." Control let the words linger. He could have added more, but they both knew he was referring to the return of Manon, and her effect on McCall.

McCall allowed himself to give in to the alcohol; it washed over him, enveloping him in a warm glow. "I'm fine," he said, at last, whispering as he tried to persuade himself.

"You're not fine," Control said, softly. "She has the same effect on you that she has always had." Control tried to convey his message as gently as possible. "You are still taking these equalizing jobs, Robert, but when something happens with Manon," he paused. "Your ability to focus is lost."

McCall glanced up sharply at Control, his eyes flashing fire for a moment. Control knew better than to push McCall on the subject of Manon, but he could see McCall's internal emotion in turmoil.

Dismissing Control's comments, McCall poured the palm wine that the waiter had left behind into the shot glasses on the table. He raised his glass, "Here's to Manon...Ben Silver...Margaret...all those souls we know who lost something deep and profound in the service of their country."

Control threw back the shot, feeling immediately that he was going to regret the evening's libations. He saw Robert was fading into deep thought, his mind turning back to Manon's circumstances and what could be done, what had to be done, what role the Company might play in her future, what it might mean for the Equalizer.

"I love her," McCall said softly, at last. "I still love her." His eyes glistened with the revelation as he stared into his drink. He looked up, not at Control, but over his shoulder at the vast expanse of African soil and the waters of the Niger River. A continent that had endured much, like Manon, her skin pillaged and plundered, but a continent that left deep emotion and searing memories in the hearts of all who knew her. It took the simple embrace of a land that had known more suffering that he could imagine for him to realize and acknowledge the deep love his heart still harbored for Manon.

Control saw McCall slipping into deep thoughts of Manon. Noting that the alcohol was starting to affect his motor skills, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "All right," he laid a consoling hand on McCall's shoulder for a moment before retiring to bed and leaving McCall to his bottle and his thoughts about Manon in the fading African dusk.

* * *

The next morning, Control awoke to a pounding on his door. He immediately reached for his sidearm, and regretfully recalled that he didn't have one. "Monsieur, Monsieur," came the cry at the door. Cradling a hangover in one hand, he noted that he had collapsed in his clothes from the night before. He made his way to the door, half awake. He listened for a moment at the door. One female - Malian accent - no other voices or feet could be detected. He waited until he was certain before he unlatched the door and opened it with authority. A small Malian woman in a hotel uniform overran him with flailing arms. "Monsieur," she said in haste, "your friend, your friend!"

Control snapped awake and followed her down the hall. She skipped McCall's room and continued down the hallway. At the end of the hallway, she pointed toward another door. Control pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness, wondering if she had mistaken him for someone else. As he entered, a wave of nausea rolled over him. The air was rancid; it smelt of sickness. "Robert?" he said, softly, not wanting to surprise McCall. McCall tumbled out of the bathroom, groaning. "For the love of God, don't turn the lights on," he rolled back to his bed, clearly in great pain and distress.

"Voilà ", the maid pulled on Control's shirt. "You see? There is another guest, he has just arrived. Your friend, he is in the wrong room."

"All right," Control turned her around and pulled her into the hallway. "Just put this room on my bill."

"But Monsieur," she protested, "we are full!"

Control thought for a moment. "Give me a few minutes, I'll collect his things, and your guest can have the other room." He paid her a handsome sum for the inconvenience. The maid seemed appeased at that, and he watched her disappear down the hall before he returned to McCall's new room.

He turned on the bathroom lights, recoiling as it was in shambles with the same sickly odor. He noted an empty bottle of water near the sink, and, tellingly, an overturned glass of water nearby. He rubbed his temples. Control knew that he shouldn't have left McCall alone at the bar with only his thoughts of Manon. There could only be one outcome. Nevertheless, although McCall may have been three sheets to the wind after his thoughts turned to Manon, the overturned glass made it far more likely that McCall was suffering from something much more serious than a brief bout of intoxication. He likely had a violent reaction to impure tap water, and Control could only guess how bad it might be. At best, it would be a 24-48 hour bug. At worst, . . . Control was well aware that Mali had hardly any potable water, certainly none this far outside Bamako. The impurities in Malian water, depending on the variety, could kill. Contaminated water borne illness was one of West Africa's most aggressive killers. McCall had likely just reached for a glass of water. And now he was very, very ill.

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
